


colours beyond red

by Quillium



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: A Series of Vignettes, Gen, first chapter is dealing with ben's death and it goes up from there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “Oh, baby,” May whispers.“You feel it, too, right?” Peter asks. The gap. The empty spot. The way that even though they always complained it was cramped and too small, the apartment suddenly feels too big, like a gaping hole has been cut out into its walls.ORPeter and May, May-and-Peter, after Ben.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	colours beyond red

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kiddos! Hope y'all are doing well--taking care of yourselves, resting lots, drinking water. I know we've all got more free time with the whole virus thing going on but don't panic, yeah? Stay educated, in-the-know, don't panic, you'll be okay. This too shall pass, even if some really awful stuff is going on.

There is blood everywhere.

Peter inhales and tries to breathe.

 _In, one. Out, two. In, three. Out, four_.

He presses his hands against Ben’s chest and they come away bloody.

This is—

It’s—

The sound of sirens, and flashing lights bright against the sidewalk.

A shock blanket over Peter’s shoulders. He wonders how long he’s been kneeling here by Ben’s cooling body.

Everything is bright red.

__

May sets roses on top of Ben’s coffin, before he’s buried. Their bright red petals are the only thing of colour in the muted graveyard.

Roses for love.

Ben was loved.

Ben loved Peter.

Ben died for loving Peter.

“It wasn’t your fault,” May murmurs to Peter, rubbing his arm while they watch the coffin lower into the ground.

He buries his face in her shoulder and tries to believe that’s true.

__

“How are we holding up, bud?” May’s smile is strained as she pushes a cup of tea into Peter’s hands.

On the kitchen counter half-hidden by the wall, he sees the cardboard package of rooibos tea packets still out, the cupboard half-open. He thinks that he should put it away later—it’s the least he can do. May’s been dealing with a lot and it’s been—hard. For both of them.

“Fine,” he says, taking a sip. He likes this tea, but it tastes like ash on his tongue, “How’re you?”

“Fine,” she says.

He hates that. Hate what she’s trying to pretend—what she’s trying to do.

What is he supposed to say? Do?

“I’m not okay,” he whispers, “And I need to know that I’m not alone in that. That I’m not—that I’m not crazy for sometimes thinking that he’s home when I hear the door or wondering why I didn’t bother learning his chocolate chip cookie recipe _before_ —“ his breath hitches. He puts down the tea cup, before he drops it. Before it breaks.

Like everything else.

“Oh, baby,” May whispers.

“You feel it, too, right?” Peter asks. The gap. The empty spot. The way that even though they always complained it was cramped and too small, the apartment suddenly feels too big, like a gaping hole has been cut out into its walls.

He isn’t crazy.

(He feels like he is.)

“I feel it, too,” May says, and she’s crying into his hair and he’s crying into her shirt, “I feel it, too, baby.”

“That’s okay,” Peter says, wrapping his arms around her and closing his eyes and his voice cracks on the _okay_ , “It’s okay. You can feel that way. You don’t have to pretend that’s not—you don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m sorry,” May says, her voice crumpled like a wet piece of paper.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Peter whispers back, “You don’t have any reason to—“

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, holding him tight, “It wasn’t.”

He closes his eyes and wonders how selfish he’s being, just wanting to stay in her arms. How selfish he’s being, ignoring the world for the comfort of May’s hug.

How selfish he’s being, hoping that he dies before she does.

Peter can’t stand to lose another person.

__

The day he goes back to school, Flash gives him a bouquet of red tulips at his locker before he leaves.

“I got them at lunch,” Flash says in an awkward, halting way that Peter has never heard him speak before, “I’m sorry that you—that you had to deal with that.”

“I thought you hated me,” Peter mumbles, wordlessly taking the flowers. Ned nods awkwardly at Flash, a greeting.

“God, Peter, your uncle just _died_. How much of a prick do you think I am?”

“No, I just—“ Peter stares at the flowers. For some reason, he didn’t think the grief would extend into school. He thought it would just—he doesn’t know—magically go away. He had thought it was weird, through his classes, how the world moved on when he couldn’t.

Now that it’s being acknowledged, he half wishes it hadn’t. That it had just been—

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Flash clears his throat, “If you need anything, just—“

“Right.”

“Right.”

They half-nod at each other, and then Flash waves, “See you, Leeds, Parker,” and walks away.

“Do you need me to—“ Ned asks, the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air.

“No, it’s okay,” Peter squeezes Ned’s hand, “This time—I think that I’m going to visit Ben’s grave alone. I’ll leave the flowers there.”

“Are you sure?”

Peter shrugs and tries to smile. He feels like he’s slugging through molasses, “Yeah. Better to—better to get it done and over with, yeah?”

“You don’t have to—you can wait—“

“I don’t want to drag it out any longer than I have to,” Peter interrupts, and immediately feels bad for doing so. “I just—thanks, Ned.”

“Yeah,” Ned says quietly, “No problem.”

Peter looks at the tulips. Bright red. They’re gorgeous.

There’s a pit in his stomach as he texts May, _going to be home late_ , and takes the bus to the graveyard.

__

“I know that we didn’t really set up for Christmas, since we wanted to focus on the Jewish traditions,” May’s voice trembles as she speaks, “But I thought—I thought it would be nice to give you a gift.”

It’s kind of funny, how they followed all the Jewish traditions because those were usually done by Ben, and May would set up a giant tree and Ben would glare at it and mutter _capitalism_ all grumbly under his breath and Peter would laugh at them both and—

They didn’t put up the tree this year. Peter doesn’t think either of them could have stood it—a peaceful Christmas, without Ben and May’s lighthearted bickering.

He unwraps a copy of _The Handmaid’s Tale_ , the bright red silhouette on the cover stark against a black background.

“Thank you,” he says, a lump growing in his throat. Ben was usually the one who gave him books, while May would take him to movies. Ben would grumble about how kids these days were always in a rush and May would give him a sloppy kiss and say _but we’re still kids, aren’t we?_ And he’d smile and they’d go to the movies and—

“I thought,” May looks away, “I thought maybe we could see _Frozen 2_ in theatres? You can bring some of your friends if just the two of us is—“ not enough.

If it’s too empty.

“No,” he says. He holds her hand, and whispers, “You’re enough.”

She cries because she doesn’t _feel_ like enough, not when she used to be one half of a whole, one third of the family, and he cries because she _is_ , she has to be, but he still misses Ben every second he’s awake.

“I love you,” she says into his hair and he puts the book down and holds her, because he’s scared that she’ll vanish the moment he lets go.

__

He picks red because it’s convenient. Because that’s just what he has, what he can afford.

He keeps it because it’s the colour of blood. Because he doesn’t want the people he fights to see him bleed, to see him so vulnerable—

Red is the colour of grief. It's the colour of blood.

It's the colour of anger. Of that hazy, lost confusion in front of the grave.

Spider-man is red.

Spider-man is more than just red.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://www.quilliumwrites.tumblr.com)


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